


a beautiful melody down from heavenly saints

by thatgirlwho



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Domestic, Eggsy is a tease and Harry is tired, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 16:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9771605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwho/pseuds/thatgirlwho
Summary: Harry wants nothing more than to drag his bone-weary body to bed and sleep properly. He has every intention of it, standing from his own seat, turning to address Arthur when there’s a loud clatter and Eggsy muttering, “Buggering shit–” and Harry turns to look.And that’s Harry’s problem: he should have known better than to look anywhere in Eggsy’s direction, given how the last two hours had passed.So, there’s Eggsy, bent over to retrieve whatever he has dropped, and Harry thinks he’s admiring the excellent tailoring on the trousers but he’s a bloody liar. He doesn’t give a shit about the stitch work.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **thisbirdhadflown** , for a kiss prompt: "a kiss because I have literally been watching you all night and I can’t take it anymore". Naturally, it got away on me, a surprise to literally no one.
> 
> Title from _Milk & Honey_ by Jessarae, which is lovely and I listened to it on repeat while writing.

The thing about coming back from the dead, Harry rather expected some sanction when it came to the more tedious obligations that came with being employed under a covert spy organization. Certainly, he received pardons from the more difficult missions (namely, missions he found dreadfully dull and was clever enough to talk his way out of, or until someone got tired of him badgering them and handed the mission to someone else) and a few extra days to complete his reports. The ubiquitous tardiness is not even discussed and for that he is grateful. 

Incidentally, not everyone adhered to what Harry thought was a universally accepted new status quo. This _everyone_ was mostly limited to the newly appointed Arthur, once hailed Merlin. 

Harry was attributing this grievous oversight to his old friend not adjusting well to the proverbial crown resting atop his head and forgetting their previously agreed upon terms. Harry wondered if maybe, despite Merlin’s cordial acceptance of the heralded role, if his dear colleague was not really up to the task, so to speak. 

He did, after all, tell Harry he would sooner invite Harry to _shove it up his arse_ than take the namesake of Arthur. He was spectacularly drunk when he said this but Merlin was a man who measured his words and rarely said what he did not mean.

So, Harry had to ask him after the little coronation when he would like it. And he managed to say it with a perfectly straight face, thank you kindly. 

Maybe this is why Merlin– _Arthur_ –has him parsing through a mission debrief at two in the morning in the HQ conference room after a six day stint in Croatia. At least he was kind enough to ask if he’d like anything to drink, though he gave Harry a withering stare when Harry answered asked for tea with a splash of cream, thank you.

“I’m not getting it for you,” Arthur says as he taps on his tablet, the dreary portrait of a uninspiring English landscape over the fireplace turning over to a black screen. “You’ve got legs.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Eggsy says. “Want something myself, anyway.”

Eggsy rises from his seat. Harry doesn’t miss the slight wince from what would be a cracked rib after their run-in with armed mercenaries on an abandoned loading dock and Harry almost stands with him, a pang of guilt and worry spurring him forward. Eggsy steadies himself against the table before walking, slightly limping actually, around to the mahogany sideboard outfitted with an electric kettle, stacked cups and a small drawer filled with tea sachets. 

“You could have left this until we at least had some sleep,” Harry informs Arthur, his tone a bit clipped. “This surely could have waited until tomorrow.”

Arthur gives him a prim, agitated stare and Harry looks back with calm defiance. 

“There a few things I wish to discuss. You will get your mandatory twenty-four hours, Galahad, starting after the meeting is finished.” 

Arthur’s gaze flickers to where Eggsy’s leaning against the wall, head thrown back mid-yawn, a fist hovering over his mouth. If Arthur catches Harry staring, he’s kind enough not to point it out. 

Eggsy makes his way back to the table, juggling three mugs of tea. He hands Harry his and when their fingers brush, Harry pauses in sitting back in his chair, eyes locked with Eggsy, who looks decidedly more awake than he did a few moments ago. 

Arthur clears his throat pointedly after a moment passes and Eggsy awkwardly settles back to his seat, avoiding both Arthur and Harry’s gaze, while Harry takes a sip of his too hot tea. 

“Gentleman, glasses, please.”

\- -

It’s bad enough that he has to sit through this asinine and unfortunately necessary requirement. Now Harry has to contend with a sleep-deprived and probably delirious Eggsy doing borderline _ndecent_ things in his vicinity. Obviously, Harry is smart enough to realize Eggsy’s likely not doing them on purpose, given how exhausted they both are, but that does not make his current actions any less distracting.

It starts with Eggsy shrugging out his jacket, a newly commissioned piece of light grey wool with delicate contrasted pinstriping, a suit that Harry is secretly very fond of and had spend a fair amount of time admiring, mostly when Eggsy was in it. Draping the jacket neatly across the back of the next chair next to him, Eggsy shakes out his arms before folding his hands behind his head, leaning back in the chair to stare bleary-eyed at Arthur, and that’s where it all goes south. Harry is distracted for the next few minutes at the way the thin white dress shirt stretches across Eggsy’s biceps and forearms, immediately lost in some sleep-deprived daydream, until Arthur barks his code name enough times that Harry snaps out of it.

He apologizes, quietly chides himself, and thanks whatever deities that have decided he was worthy of their time that Arthur keeps his mouth shut. As he fills Arthur in on the day-by-day progress reports, he adamantly vows to himself to keep his eyes trained on the ghastly bust of some long-deceased Arthur he never knew tucked in the corner of the room.

It gets a bit more complicated when he forgets to keep his own word and catches Eggsy’s tongue curling out over his lips, a slow and lazy absentminded motion that sends Harry reeling. He watches for a ludicrous amount of time but in his defence Eggsy keeps _doing it_ , over and over, and in the back of his mind, he’s appalled at his own perverted leering, but he can’t help thinking of how _soft_ Eggsy’s lips look, beautifully pink, damp and shiny from his tongue. When Eggsy sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, worrying it as he listens to Arthur remark on their inspired use of the signet rings, Harry has to grip the arms of his chair to keep focused on anything but Eggsy’s ridiculous mouth.

The torture continues when Eggsy gets up for a second cup of tea, offering to grab Harry one, which Harry replies with a wordless shake of his head, not trusting his own head at the moment. Arthur is asking him about the intel gathered and Harry’s answering in thorough answers, relieved for the distraction from the mind-altering display. So, when Harry casually glances up when he hears Eggsy join them back at the table and he sees Eggsy sucking something–honey or spilled tea–off his thumb, tongue darting out to lap up whatever had dripped down his wrist, Harry’s mind completely short circuits and he has to bite back the frustrated groan that almost slips out. 

It’s the exhaustion catching up, he tells himself, staring steadfastly at Arthur, who seems completely unaware of what is happening before him. 

Harry goes back to concentrating on the bulbous nose on the bust in the corner and counts to one hundred in Italian as Arthur asks Eggsy to fill him in on his lone recon attempt at a gala they attended last minute.

Then, it’s Eggsy sighing, running his hands through his hair in a way Harry can only describe as mesmerizing, dragging his fingers from his temples to the back of his head, trailing down his neck, coming around to rest on his collarbones and _when did he unbutton his shirt, good lord_. The shirt is stretching across his arms again and Harry pretends he’s typing something in his own tablet even though he had completed his mission report on the plane ride home and can’t possibly think of another thing to add.

He ignores Arthur’s curious glance, staring down at his tablet until his vision begins to swim.

It’s unacceptably obscene, this he is adamant of, when Eggsy sits for a full fifteen minutes, slouched in his chair, the top of his shirt falling open in a way that’s far too revealing. He refrains from telling Eggsy to sit up, fix his shirt, physically reach across and button the shirt for him, run his hands over the expanse of skin, underneath the shirt to feel the heat of his body everywhere, pull him closer, just enough to brush his mouth against Eggsy’s skin–

He thinks of Mr Pickles in the loo and is able to steady his breathing long enough to pay attention to what Arthur is saying.

Harry manages to survive to the end of the meeting, Arthur finally rising from his spot, gathering up his tablet, nodding at Harry and Eggsy in turn. Harry rubs at his eyes and looks at his watch: 4:12 AM. He wants nothing more than to drag his bone-weary body to bed and sleep properly. He has every intention of it, standing from his own seat, turning to address Arthur when there’s a loud clatter and Eggsy muttering, “Buggering shit–” and Harry turns to look.

And that’s Harry’s problem: he should have known better than to look anywhere in Eggsy’s direction, given how the last two hours had passed.

So, there’s Eggsy, bent over to retrieve whatever he has dropped, and Harry thinks he’s admiring the excellent tailoring on the trousers but he’s a bloody liar. He doesn’t give a shit about the stitch work.

Because Eggsy’s arse looks _unbelievable_. And there’s really no other way to put it, if he’s resigned himself to now being perfectly honest. 

Harry has to lean on the table and physically work to keep his mouth closed. He’s past the point of trying to convince himself it’s the exhaustion making him act this way.

When Eggsy straightens back up, triumphantly waving his tablet, he catches Harry staring and for a moment Harry feels trapped, pinned down by Eggsy’s inquisitive gaze.

Then, Eggsy winks.

Well, that is _quite_ enough.

Harry is around the table in a few long, swift strides, coming to stand in front of Eggsy, grabbing onto his elbow.

“May I speak with you privately?” Harry asks, his voice rising to an unflattering, harried pitch. 

Eggsy’s cheeks go the slightest shade of pink. Harry does _not_ think of how it’s so similar to Eggsy’s lips, the ones now slightly parted, the temptation to know the warmth and softness of them even worse now that he’s so much closer. 

Good _fucking_ lord.

Harry pulls Eggsy from the room without the younger man making too much of a fuss, earning them only a vaguely suspicious glance from Arthur. Whether it’s a dawning sense of self-preservation or just the long day catching up to him, Eggsy stays notably quiet as Harry leads them down the hall, a sharp right turn and another short walk until they are standing in front of his office door.

Harry looks over his shoulder, almost expecting to see Arthur standing there watching them with his intimidating glower, as he sets his thumb on the scan pad, the internal clicks and mechanical whir of the door unlocking the most welcome thing he’d heard all day, and shoves Eggsy inside the dark room. 

Finally, Eggsy speaks, sounding disgruntled, “Harry, what’s going–”

“Care to tell me what all that was?” Harry interrupts, not really having the energy or patience to dance around the subject. 

A small moment of tension passes between them before Eggsy grins, the corner of his mouth pulling up, his guarded stance relaxing, tucking his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Oh, so you did notice, then? Was starting to wonder.”

 _Well_. Harry spends a moment working through the night in hindsight. “You did it on purpose?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Eggsy searches Harry’s face as he steps forward, closing the short gap between them. He seems to find something in Harry’s expression that delights him because his smile goes wide, dimpling his cheeks, and _oh fuck_. Eggsy’s hand wrap around Harry’s wrist, a barely there touch, fingers brushing against the back of Harry’s knuckles. “ _Brilliant_.”

Harry twists his hand, catching Eggsy by the wrist and yanking his hand up. Harry hopes his expression conveys one of mild frustration, disbelief, and he won’t have to put words to all of this.

Naturally, Eggsy huffs, annoyed, and rolls his eyes, tugging his hand from Harry’s grasp.

“Oh, c’mon, Harry! You make this dumb as fuck rule that we can’t _have relations during missions_ –” Eggsy has donned a mocking tone and the aggravating use of air quotations to supposedly prove his point. Harry frowns at him.

“I stand by that rule.” And he has good reasons, most of them mortifying and a hard lesson learned in the dangers of distraction, all of which he tries not to reminisce too long on. At least not without a good bottle of gin. 

“–so you best believe that as soon as we step foot off that jet, I’m getting _mine_.”

Harry can understand Eggsy’s frustration quite well. They had only been together for a few weeks and while it had been better than either could have imagined, they had to be cautious when it came to revealing too much, too soon. They had decided that night, one of the first things they discussed, when Eggsy had mustered up the courage to tell Harry how he felt (in a rambling, meandering way with lots of shuffling and hand waving that Harry listened intently to but found blissfully endearing) and Harry had breathed a sigh of relief, able to finally give credence to his own feelings, held on to far longer than he would admit, that they would keep it between the two of them. 

They didn’t say it as such, but it was understood between them: _just in case_. 

There was enough between them, things that needed time and patience to be discussed and acknowledged and, in some awful instances, forgiven, without the hinderance of friends and family and colleagues weighing in. 

Harry didn’t want to admit it frightened him that, after all the months he spent actually _fantasizing_ about being with Eggsy,like one of those misty wistful heroine in paperback romance novels, that it might not actually work. That all those private tragedies and quiet calamities they brought with them would be too much to overcome, just enough to end it this before it truly began. 

And he knew that Eggsy felt the same. So, he can understand why Eggsy is desperate now, desperate for touch and reassurance and for Harry to return his need for it, to give truth to it, to them, when days had passed between them without even a touch. It was too much, far too much of a burden, and Harry cannot believe he went that long without feeling Eggsy against him; and just as quickly as the realization came, he suddenly _craved_ every part of him. 

Harry pulls Eggsy forward, flush with him, and winds his arms around Eggsy’s shoulders, one hand trailing up to brush against the nape of his neck. Eggsy sighs, long and content, settling into Harry’s embrace, his arms coming to wrap to around Harry’s waist. They stand together in silence, swaying with their combined weight and exhaustion, knowing that now they are finally able to hold each other how they’ve wanted for days, they won’t be able to let go. 

Harry forgot how much he needs this, needs _this_ from Eggsy, this softness and quiet and simplicity, to love Eggsy without reservation or worry if any will see. To let Eggsy love him much the same, pressing fervent kisses all over, to grab hold of him and pull him close, laughing through his sincere affections, something wholly intoxicating, maddening in how it made Harry entirely oblivious to anything else around him. 

“Arthur could have seen,” Harry murmurs after a few silent minutes. He has one hand resting against the small of Eggsy’s back, thumb rubbing slow, steady circles. 

“Hey, I can be discreet,” Eggsy protests. He peeks out from where he’s buried his face against Harry’s chest. “Are you _blushing_? Shit, that’s even better.” Eggsy laughs, the sound washing through Harry like a wave, and brings his hands up to rest against Harry’s face. “Come here, give us a kiss.”

Harry has come to realize in these few short, incredible weeks, it’s very difficult for him to say no to Eggsy. 

He can feel Eggsy’s smile against his mouth, the soft puffs of air as he tries not to laugh. Timid, tender fleeting kisses, Eggsy’s hands trailing restlessly down his arms, over his chest, the laughter still stifled as Harry leans forward to capture his mouth again. Harry, agitated and urgent now that he’s tasted Eggsy, tightens his grip, relishing the startled gasp it brings out, deepening the kiss, hauling him closer. Eggsy stops fidgeting, the laughter turning to deep, pleased moans, his hands coming to rest on Harry’s hips, using the leverage to drag him down, pressing against the length of him. 

Harry’s breath hitches, a flood of exhilaration twisting in his stomach, a fizz of bright excitement and promise of something more, making him falter, hovering with lips just over Eggsy’s, his hands framing his face. Before he can regain his thoughts, Eggsy grunts in irritation, wrapping himself closer around Harry, finding his his mouth again and kissing hungrily. Unsteady and stumbling, Eggsy pushes Harry back until they hit the desk, Harry collapsing against it, catching himself before he completely topples over.

Eggsy wastes no time, knocking Harry’s legs apart with his knee, fitting himself in the space, crowding himself against Harry. He’s tugging Harry’s shirt free from his trousers, fingers tracing along the waistband before pushing his shirt up his chest, his attentive hands ghosting across skin, making Harry shiver. 

Eggsy’s mumbling something against Harry’s mouth, something Harry can’t make out and doesn’t care to, lost to the feeling of Eggsy’s hands pressing underneath his ribs, his desperate kisses, turning playful as he drags his teeth over Harry’s bottom lip. 

But the intensity slips into gentleness, Eggsy’s hands now resting with a certain reverence against Harry’s chest, fingers spread over him. Their lips brushing against each other, effortless and tired, without direction or the fervent need of before. Eggsy’s resting his weight against Harry once again and Harry feels a stillness come over him, that soft internal sigh of finding something you’ve been searching for, making him feel inexplicably _complete_. He gathers Eggsy close, leans forward until their foreheads are resting together. 

Oh, how he missed _this_.

“Six days is far too long,” Harry concedes after a few quiet minutes. 

Eggsy hums, low and pleasant. He says nothing else, nestles himself into Harry’s chest, face burrowed into his shoulder, and Harry can feel the steady, even breaths against him, a warmth that melts through him like honey. 

But the quiet gives him a chance to overthink and now the events of the last few hours seem glaring in hindsight. He’s not worried but he can’t deny the swell of anxiety that turns over in him, of what putting a name to this will do. What, if anything, it could change; of the ease with which they fell into this, that they still found themselves in.

It feels a lot like marking boundaries, drawing expectations, setting absolutes, and Harry’s unsure if it’s what Eggsy wants, in the end. If the change will give an unwanted weight to their relationship and Eggsy will decide he does not want to carry it. 

Harry’s not sure if _he’s_ ready, for having change or none at all. 

“If you’re ready to tell them…” Harry begins, but he’s not sure how to phrase the rest of it. That’s not a good indication, he muses, of how the rest of this could possibly go. 

Eggsy pulls back and looks at him, brows furrowed, his gaze guarded, cautious. “Are you?”

It seems all far too ordinary, surrounded as they are in the half-dark with the sun cresting the horizon in a muddy mix of blue and orange, trying not to fall into the siren call of long-needed sleep, the bitter leftover tang of the tea they had drank in his mouth, slipped into the hazy familiarity of the years and years he has filled in this office; and there is Eggsy, fitting into all of it, how easily he had found his place amongst the habits and old routine of Harry’s life, that Harry barely noticed the shift, a faint ripple on water. 

Standing on the edge of something new and thrilling and unknown, it feels as if the decision he makes now will be the change he has both anticipated and feared, and he finds it funny that he’s thinking on how plain the moment seems, how it’s bothering him an inane amount. 

Maybe it’s what he needed, the ease of things as they always are and how it remained unchanged, a kind reminder that he could _have_ this, to form the courage to say it. 

“I am,” Harry says, the words sticking in his throat because even after years of learning to read people, he still can’t know for sure. His hand comes to rest on the side of Eggsy’s face, thumb brushing over his cheek. The smile Eggsy gives him makes Harry’s sink bodily into relief, a flutter unfurling in his chest like warm light. “But we can discuss it in the morning. You look dreadfully tired, darling.”

Eggsy gives him an odd, deliberate look, the smile all of a sudden frozen on his face. 

“What?” Harry asks fretfully. 

“You called me _darling_.”

“Oh, I–” Harry tries to steal himself against the dismay, at getting ahead of himself. “My apologies, Eggsy, if you don’t wish to use endearments…”

Eggsy waves a hand in front of his face, the smile going soft again, not so strained, and the tense grip Harry had around Eggsy’s waist loosens. 

“No, it’s just–no one’s ever done that before. Called me a name like that. Sounds nice. Darling. Yeah, I like that.” Eggsy is smiling, nodding slightly as he slips their hands together, tangling and squeezing his fingers around Harry’s absently. 

And Harry thinks that for all the times Eggsy was called something cruel and demeaning, he will replace it with something tender, and kind; he knows that he would spend the rest of his life making sure that the moments of benevolence and love outweigh all the lonely, terrible ones.

\- -

Harry wakes to blessed darkness, warmth and a completely numb right arm. He tries to shift to his side, tug his now tingling hand free, only to have Eggsy, tucked between him and the couch and somehow still managing to have most of his limbs wrapped around Harry, grumble against him in protest, tightening his arms across Harry’s chest, his legs hooking around Harry’s calf.

It does something funny to his heart, a trip and stutter of its beat that thumps against his chest, looking down at Eggsy, lips slightly parted, brow furrowed, Harry feels a rush of daring, a giddy need to do something he’s far too nervous to do when the other man’s awake, let alone in the presence of others: he reaches out to gently brush back the hair spread across Eggsy’s forehead, letting his hand come to rest behind his ear.

He thinks, he might not mind this, waking up to someone beside him. Not just someone, though. _Eggsy_. He keeps reminding himself of this, as if one day he will wake up and will realize it was never true. It’s always small panic, a dread starting to seep in, before recognizing Eggsy’s presence beside him, and the gentle fall back into the comfort it brings him.

He wouldn’t mind staying here the rest of the day, Eggsy’s soft snoring against his chest, and nothing and no one else demanding their attention. But something jolted him awake, pulled him from a deep, dreamless sleep–

There’s knocking on the door. A lot of it, all of it impatient. Judging by the pace, the person has been knocking for awhile. 

It takes him a minute before Harry remembers he and Eggsy had opted to just stay at the estate; he was grateful for his own preparedness, learning early on his career that a wider couch and a closet stocked with blankets was needed when the nights got long or he was just far too exhausted to even consider the forty-five minute journey back to Savile Row.

There’s another knock, sharp and fast. He groans, rubbing his hand vigorously over his face.

Harry manages to extricate himself from Eggsy’s surprising vice grip, tumbles a little inelegantly to the ground in an attempt to untangle himself from the blanket, and pokes around in the half-darkness for something to put on. He finds his pants as the raps become more insistent, muttering under his breath as he stumbles towards the door, yanking open the door with a bit more force than needed, ready to thoroughly reprimand whoever is waking him at such an ungodly hour–

Only to come face to face with Arthur. 

Harry clamps up and stands rigidly in the doorway.

He does not like the look on Arthur’s face, the leisurely way he’s leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded in front of him. 

“Sleep, eh?” Arthur asks, nodding his chin towards the couch, where Eggsy’s sprawled out form was obvious under the blanket. Harry almost closes the door to hide Eggsy from view but decides that it would only worsen the situation.

Harry does not appreciate the smug grin on Arthur’s face and has a childish desire to flick him on the nose for it. He manages to restrain himself, in a shocking display of self control. 

“Well, since you kept us so bloody late, it was easier to just stay here.”

Arthur’s eyebrows rise and he snorts out a laugh. “Didn’t realize you let younger agents sleep in your office.”

Harry blanches. “He stayed for a drink. A toast to another successful mission.”

“Right. You often drink without most of your clothes on? Or was that after the toast?” Arthur asks, eyeing Harry closely, and Harry’s about to spit out some sarcastic counter when he realizes–he only managed to put pants on before opening the door and was standing there, without a shirt on, trying to tell Arthur that Eggsy only stayed for a drink. Bollocks.

“What do you want, Arthur?”

“I didn’t get a chance to leave these with you after the debrief. You seemed–preoccupied.”

Before Harry can comment on his suggestive choice of words, Arthur shoves a neatly tied manila folder filled with what looks like requisition forms into Harry’s arms. Harry frowns as he shifts to lean against the door, fingering through the sheets, his frown turning further down as he scanned through them. 

When he looks up to catch Arthur’s eye, that desire to flick him returns at the sight of the disgustingly pleased look on his face. 

“How did you–”

“Know? Please, Harry. Nothing happens in this agency without my knowing.”

Harry is decidedly at a loss for words because, yes, of course, it’s precisely _why_ he is now Arthur and it makes such stupid, simple sense that Harry feels a tad ashamed for thinking he could have slipped underneath his old friends radar. 

Arthur clasps his hands together, his delight far too apparent for Harry’s liking. “Well, now that we’ve cleared the air, I expect you both to fill those out.” Arthur straightens himself out, smoothing down his tie. “And no extensions, Galahad. I want these on my desk by the end of the twenty-four hour respite.”

With that, and before Harry can reply, Arthur gently pushes past him, leans across the threshold and flicks on all four overhead lights simultaneously. The previously dark room is bathed in harsh bright light and Eggsy groans loudly, the blanket shifting and rustling as he moves around on the couch. 

“Good morning, Eggsy,” Merlin calls out with an air of satisfaction. 

Eggsy pokes his head out from under the covers, eyes half-lidded, hair sleep-mussed and looking rather adorably pissed off. Harry can’t help the helpless flutter in his chest, the need to cross the room and kiss Eggsy awake. 

“Morning, Arthur.” Eggsy answers automatically; then, his eyes going wide, a frantic shuffle to sit up: “Wait, the fuck–”

The door shuts with a soft click behind a laughing Arthur and the two men are left alone again, Eggsy gaping at Harry, Harry standing with the folder clutched in his hands. 

“Did that just happen?” Eggsy asks after a moment. When Harry nods, Eggsy flops back down, pressing his hands to his face, adding in a virulent, “Ah, shit.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says with what he hopes is an effortless reassurance. “A little sooner than we planned but–well, I guess I should have known that he would find out.” Harry sighs, looking down to the folder again, already mourning the loss of a once quiet morning to paperwork. “Though he has given us something to keep us busy. Best to get it done with.”

Harry tosses the folder onto Eggsy’s lap, making his way over to his desk to find some pens. Eggsy sits up, already moving over to make room for Harry, tugging the blankets around his waist. Eggsy spreads out the forms on the coffee table in front of him, brow furrowed as he reads through them. His hair is still sticking up at odd angles, the right side of his cheek imprinted with the crease of the pillow, his eyes still a bit unfocused and bleary. Harry pauses for a moment at his desk just to watch him, always caught by the fleeting thought that this is just a fever dream and it will end and it never does. 

Harry sets the pens down on the table, taking his place beside Eggsy. He hesitates for a moment, even now–this is still all entirely new, and fragile. He’s always certain one wrong word, one ill-timed movement, and it would all come apart in his hands. He can’t imagine losing it all now, not in the delirious haze of it all being so wonderful, what he had wanted for endless months. With the precarious ledge they find themselves on, staring down in an unknown path, Harry finds the entirety of it weightless and delicate, like if he holds too tight, it will collapse under him, but if he forgets to hold on at all, it will float away. 

So, he does hesitate–but he reaches forward anyway, smoothing down the mess of Eggsy’s hair, running his fingers softly through. It’s different without the cover of curtained windows and a dark room, the belief that he can only be so confident with his affection because Eggsy’s sleeping.

Eggsy, sitting with his elbows on his knees, one hand curled over his mouth, glances up at Harry, the corners of his lips visible as they lift into a smile. Harry shifts closer, leans towards Eggsy, and presses a kiss to his forehead, a dizzy, foolish hope spreading through him that, just maybe, they never have to move from this couch, leave this room. 

That they can simply exist here, in this suspended moment, waking in the late morning to each other, to sleep-warm skin and gentle lazy kisses, to faint murmured suggestions for the rest of the day, knowing full well neither of them will move. 

The forms for _Application For Internal Agent Relationship and Cohabitation_ were going to take most of the morning and Harry had plenty of better ways he’d rather spend the rest of their respite together. 

Eggsy grabs a pen from beside the folder, clicking it open, and begins filling out his form, the crisp, heavy print quickly filling up the empty boxes. Harry watches him, strangely captivated and mildly surprised by his enthusiasm, as he makes fast work of the questions, only stopping once to tap the pen against his cheek before scratching down another answer. 

In the box next to _Intended Partner_ , Eggsy writes in block letters _Harry Hart_. He looks back up at Harry, his smile now wide and earnest, a look so loving and elated with hopeful anticipation that Harry can’t help but smile back. 

It does something funny to Harry’s heart. And he doesn’t mind, not at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at [**notbrogues**](http://notbrogues.tumblr.com)!


End file.
